by Mark Burnell
Stephanie looked around: clothes on chairs, clothes on the floor, a towel draped over the end of the bed, a desk, books everywhere, an open briefcase, two tennis rackets, car keys, framed photographs, a small TV. Waxman's mobile was on his bedside table. Stephanie felt her pulse accelerate, so she waited, forcing it to slow. Then she began to cross the floor, the knife in her gloved right hand, ready.
She was half-way there when Judith shifted. Stephanie halted. More movement, the sheets rustling, then a deep sigh that drifted into renewed silence. She let fifteen seconds pass before moving forward. Waxman's mobile was recharging. She removed the cable, then tiptoed back to the passage.
From her knapsack she took the blue Motorola that she'd bought from Viktor Sabin. As far as she could tell, they were identical. She removed the SIM card from Waxman's phone, inserted it into Sabin's phone, then attached Waxman's phone to the transfer port, which bled the remaining information and the number. This task completed, she loaded everything into the new phone, sliding Waxman's Motorola into her knapsack.
Back into the bedroom, back across the floor, she attached the new Motorola to the old recharging cable. The screen illuminated for a second. Waxman groaned softly at her side, his eyelids fluttering. Stephanie put the phone down, bent over him and held the blade close to his throat, which he cleared, noisily. More grunting, a shift in position, then Judith moved. Stephanie wondered what exactly Waxman would see if he woke up now. Moving blackness and a glinting pair of eyes, then nothing at all.
They both settled down. Stephanie retreated, closed the door, returned the knife to the wooden block in the kitchen and left the way she'd come in. It was four fifteen. By five she'd left Alexandra Park and had hailed a taxi. She was wearing jeans, trainers, a plain purple T-shirt and a navy anorak. The knapsack was lighter than when she'd arrived in Singapore the previous evening, her damp black clothes now discarded. Her passport, ticket and cash remained dry in a pouch zipped into a side pocket. Just before five-thirty her taxi delivered her to Changi airport.
Five past one in the afternoon. In her bathroom at the Conrad she brushed her hair, applied some make-up and a generous swipe of ruby lipstick. In the bedroom she dressed in clothes bought at Pacific Place, beneath the hotel: a skirt and jacket by Armani, a blue shirt by Mango. The clothes she'd worn overnight were in a pile on the carpet. On the bed was the SOCOM, Mark 23 Mod0. Based on the Heckler & Koch USP, the gun was developed for the US Special Operations Command (hence SOCOM) in the 1990s and had a threaded muzzle that protruded from the slide to allow the attachment of the sound suppressor. Which lay next to it. She placed both parts in a Loewe handbag, then examined herself in the bathroom mirror and saw Petra looking back.
It could be worse. You could be Stephanie.
She caught a taxi to MacDonnell Road, ensuring that she was dropped off two hundred yards short of the building. Despite it being overcast and damp, she slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses.
The glass front door was locked. There was an intercom to the left and a key-pad. She punched in the four-digit number for Mr and Mrs Kuok on the thirteenth floor, a piece of neutral information provided by Magenta House. The lock released and she entered a lobby of polished stone and brass. There was a small booth on the left for visitors. Behind the glass a toothy man was watching a portable TV in a halo of cigarette smoke. Stephanie strode confidently past him. He turned to look at her, was sure he hadn't seen her before, yet she'd punched a correct entry code, so …
The lift doors opened. Stephanie stepped in before he'd made up his mind. She hit the button for the thirteenth floor. Better to be consistent. The doors closed. At the thirteenth she used the emergency staircase to take her up to the sixteenth. She checked the swing-door. It was unlocked and opened onto the space between the lift and front door. The building had one apartment per floor, which worked in her favour. She retreated into the stairwell, took the gun from the bag and attached the silencer. It was nine minutes to two. Cheung's programme for the day had a blank space between two and five.
Stephanie wedged the Loewe bag in the swing-door so that it offered a glimpse of the hall: a tiled floor, two pot plants on either side of a wooden door, a cheap mirror on the far wall. She wondered whether Daisy Yiu was alone in the apartment or whether she'd organized another girl for Cheung. Stephanie had watched him coming and going four times. Twice he'd been preceded by Daisy and another girl, one a leggy blonde, the other a dead-ringer for Naomi Campbell.
Cheung always entered the building alone. Normally, wherever be went, he was surrounded by two or three men in cheap suits; a sure sign that he wasn't quite the model citizen he now claimed to be. But his protection never ventured inside Daisy Yiu's building. They escorted him to the entrance, then retreated to his black Mercedes 4x4 and parked a hundred metres down the street.
The stairwell was airless. Stephanie could feel perspiration on her top lip and beneath her armpits. Her stomach was tense; always the first part of her to register Petra's presence.
She heard the soft chime of the lift. She picked up the bag, stepped into the hall and hoped that Daisy Yiu wouldn't open the door. If she did, there would be no alternative. Since Cheung owned the flat, Stephanie assumed he had his own key, allowing him to arrive without warning if he wished.
She heard the whisper of rushing air as the lift decelerated in the shaft. It came to a halt and the metal doors clattered open. Felix Cheung was alone. He wore a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, black trousers, lizard-skin shoes with a silver toe-cap and a pair of Ray-Bans.
Stephanie gave him her most dazzling smile. 'Hello.'
For a moment he wasn't sure. Stephanie read his mind: was she, perhaps, something off Daisy's afternoon menu? He never saw the gun.
Even with a twenty-five decibel reduction in noise, the shot sounded loud in such a confined space. The first bullet knocked Cheung back against the lift wall. He pitched to his left, his head smacking a rail. Stephanie stepped into the lift, fired a second shot into the skull and pressed the button for the first floor. As the doors closed she pointed the gun at Daisy Yiu's front door.
Please don't open.
As soon as she was on her way down she detached the silencer from the gun, put both pieces into the bag and took out the second Motorola that Viktor Sabin had provided. It was red, instead of blue. Sabin had made a point of that: after all, you don't want to get them mixed up, do you? When the lift reached the first floor she stepped out, then leaned back in and pressed the button for the top floor. Once it was on its way up she took the fire-escape to the ground floor. As she walked through the lobby she switched on the phone. By the time she was on MacDonnell Road she had a signal. She opened the address book. There was only one entry. She pressed 'OK' and put the phone to her ear. It was ringing as she strolled past Cheung's black Mercedes 4x4. Then there was a connection.
'Hello?'
'Is that Alan Waxman?'
'Yeah. Who's this?'
'I have a message for you from an old friend.'
'Who are you?'
Stephanie pressed the star button, then switched off the phone.
I step out of the shower and pull on a white towelling dressing-gown. I fasten the cord, go into the bedroom and call Mark. He's surprised to hear me, then even more surprised when I tell him I'm returning to London.
'When?'
'Tonight.'
'Fantastic.' Then there's a brief pause before the obvious follow-up. 'Why?'
I'm standing by the window. Dense cloud has descended. I can no longer see the ground from sixty-one floors up. Even the upper floors of the buildings closest to me are beginning to fade, melting into the greyness.
Alan Waxman and Felix Cheung are dead but am I any closer to Gemini? Am I any closer to freedom than I was yesterday? I should be but I don't feel it.
'It's a little complicated,' I say, not quite believing how lame I sound.
'Is everything okay?'
'Everything's fine. Anyway, look on the bright side: this t
ime tomorrow I'll be home.'
The last apartment window vanishes. I'm now alone in swirling cloud.
The phone by my bed rings. I tell Mark to hold on, then answer it. It's Savic. He's heard about Waxman and Cheung. He's in the lobby and says we need to talk – can I come down? No, I tell him, it's not convenient.
'Then I'll come up.'
Before I can tell him that isn't convenient either, the line's dead. I finish my call to Mark as quickly as possible. When I open the door for him, Savic is like a small child on Christmas morning.
'I can't believe it! Waxman during lunch at Jade – incredible!'
I shut the door and follow him into my room.
There's real pleasure in his eyes when he says, 'Apparently his head went all over a plate of crispy suckling pig skin and foie gras.'
'That doesn't sound very Chinese.'
It's all I can muster but it makes Savic laugh.
'What was it?' he asks.
'Semtex with mercury droplets. Detonated by the star button on a dedicated handset.'
For five minutes we talk about what this means to Gilbert Lai. And what it could mean for the future. Mostly it's Savic's monologue. He lights a cigarette to give him something to do with his hands. He waves it through the air as he talks; it only touches his lips twice. Then he stops. In mid-sentence. At last he's noticed what's on the bed. A suitcase, half-packed. It's as though I've pressed his star button; the good humour vaporizes in an instant.
'You're leaving?'
'Tonight.'
'Where are you going?'
'Home.' Then, before he can ask where, I add: 'Europe.'
'What about us?'
'I don't really do collaboration, Milan.'
'Why not?'
'Collaboration requires trust.'
'Not always.'
'For me, it would have to.'
'You don't trust me?'
'I'm not sure that you trust me.'
He considers this. 'I could. If I knew you.'
'But you don't.'
'Because you won't let me.'
'Do you find that surprising?'
'Of course not. You calculate everything so that you can eliminate risk. But trust is always a risk.'
'True. That's why I don't trust anybody.'
Which is when he reaches for my dressing-gown cord.
'You should try it,' he says. 'You might learn something.'
Time to pull a cord of my own. Except I don't. Or rather, Petra doesn't. Where I see impossibility, she sees an opportunity. And she recognizes the risk that he's taking. Whatever else he might be, Savic isn't an idiot. He knows he's not about to overpower me.
So everything depends on my reaction. This has been on the horizon for a while. I've had time to consider it. I hoped it wouldn't happen but imagined it probably would. As Petra, sex is a weapon I can't afford to ignore. Waxman and Cheung were an opportunity to get closer to Gemini. Sex is the same.
The dressing-gown falls open and he reaches inside with his right hand. Coarse fingertips touch my stomach. I'm looking into his eyes, giving him nothing. He runs his hand over my belly button, through my pubic hair and between my thighs. This is a contest he can't win. He presses one finger inside me, then two, before leaning into me and kissing me.
Petra does whatever it takes. That's the essence of her. I've killed two men today so the prospect of sex with Savic should feel inconsequential by comparison. But it doesn't, which is unsettling. I remind myself that I've done this many times before. That it's not sex. It's partition; I keep one part of me to myself, which makes it easier to allow the rest of me to be occupied. That's what I've learnt.
There's no tenderness when he pressures me to my knees, one hand fumbling with his zip, the other clutching my wet hair. But I don't protest. On the contrary. I take him into my mouth and do what used to come so naturally. Later he shoves the suitcase onto the floor, pushes me back onto the bed, spreads my thighs and presses his mouth between them, his frantic tongue and fingers everywhere all at once. I still don't give him anything. Even when we fuck, it's hard work. Devoid of emotion, we're rude and brutal. He takes me on the bed, against the wall, on the floor. But I match him for ferocity, pushing against him harder than he pushes into me. I'm burning, my sinews popping against my skin.
Now we're on the bed again. Savic is behind me, his hands clamped over my hips, his fingers digging into me, his thighs against my buttocks. Drops of his sweat drip onto my back. I hear the clinking of the gold dog-tags that hang from the chain around his neck. I can see a pale reflection of us in the window. We're fucking in the clouds. Every time I look at him I have to remind myself that I'm Petra. That this is okay because it has nothing to do with Mark. That it's business, not infidelity.
It just feels like infidelity, that's all.
Chapter 9
London slid beneath her in perfect clarity. In the dawn the Thames was a ribbon of shimmering silver. She'd fallen asleep over China. When she woke up, over western Russia, she noticed the change. The reversion to Stephanie. At least, the start; it was a process, not a moment. Like a snake sloughing its skin. Now, as the aircraft completed its descent, Stephanie estimated it would take her an hour to reach Mark's bed. She caught a black cab to Queen's Gate Mews, dumped her luggage in the sitting room and tiptoed to the bedroom. Mark was asleep. She bent over him and kissed him lightly on the forehead. He stirred.
'Hey …'
'Go back to sleep.'
'Come to bed.'
'In a minute. I'm going to have a shower.'
'Shower later. With me.'
'I'll do that as well.'
'Mmm – come here.'
'No. I feel … you know … disgusting.'
'Even better.'
'In your dreams.'
She stripped in the bathroom and crushed her clothes into a ball in the corner. Beneath the jet, she turned up the temperature, steam filling the glass cabinet. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours she was wet and naked in the clouds.
She'd had a shower after Savic had left her room, then a bath, and she'd worn clean clothes for the flight, but she still felt contaminated. Now, her skin blushing, she scrubbed herself thoroughly, the soap stinging between her legs. She used Mark's shampoo to wash her hair twice.
She stepped onto the bath-mat and opened the small sash window to let the steam escape. Drying herself slowly, she caught her reflection in the clearing mirror. There were faint bruises over her hips and thighs. At first glance they were shockingly vivid. After consideration, she accepted they were faint. And easy to explain.
She used some Listerine to rinse out her mouth. Not strong enough; she looked in the medicine cabinet, found some TCP, used that, diluted at first, then neat, scorching the taste and feel of him from her tongue.
Mark was asleep when she returned to the bedroom. She slipped beneath the sheet beside him, as lightly as possible. Without waking, he reached for her, taking her left hand in his right. She stared at the ceiling. It was after seven before they were both awake. Yawning, he ran a hand through his dishevelled hair and said, 'That TCP is probably peeling wallpaper in Marble Arch.'
'Sorry.'
'Have you got a sore throat?'
'Not any more.'
When they made love, it hurt; that was Savic's legacy. But she showed Mark the pleasure in her head, the pleasure she should have felt. Only later did it strike her that it was a performance as fraudulent as the one she'd put on for Savic.
'Jesus Christ! An exploding phone in a public place? And Felix Cheung? What the bloody hell were you thinking?'
They were in Alexander's office, Stephanie as casual as she could be in frayed jeans and one of Mark's shirts. Alexander, as starched as ever, was apoplectic, the white of his collar setting off his beetroot face to full effect.
Earlier, in one of the conference rooms, she'd watched a montage of international news coverage with Rosie: CNN, PCNE Chinese, BBC World, TV Globo, Star News, Australia's ABC. T
he images were similar: the Fullerton hotel cordoned off behind a crush of police cars, a distant shot of paramedics carrying a stretcher towards a waiting ambulance, stills of Alan Waxman and his two lunch companions.
She'd seen the initial bulletins in the British Airways first-class lounge at Hong Kong airport. At that stage it had all been speculation. Besides, local news had dominated the evening's agenda: the cold-blooded slaying of Felix Cheung, the well-known and well-respected restaurant owner. According to sources, Cheung had just finished visiting the elderly mother of a business associate at the apartment block on MacDonnell Road. Stephanie had been unable to resist a wry smile: so, not visiting his highly paid mistress, then, or any of her extracurricular assistants.
Later there had been another item on the news that had grabbed her attention. It was almost an afterthought. The Hong Kong police were continuing to make enquiries following the discovery of a body at the edge of the Aberdeen Upper Reservoir. Identification was proving problematic; the body had been badly beaten and set on fire. They said they had reason to believe the man was an Albanian now living in Germany and that he'd come to Hong Kong as a tourist. They were appealing to anybody who might be able to help them with additional information.
Asim Maliqi. So he'd ignored her advice. As she knew he would.
She said to Alexander, 'I needed something to get me close to Savic.'
He looked utterly incredulous. 'So you did a contract for someone else? Without even consulting us? For God's sake, what's the matter with you?'
Stephanie's own temper was crumbling. 'The last time I sat in this chair I asked you how I should get close to him. You told me to think of something. Well, guess what? I did. And it worked. Spectacularly. So what's the problem?'
'The problem is you! Running around terminating civilians …'
